


Bolt-Cutter, Box Cutter, Brick

by concertconfetti



Category: The Blackout Club (Video Game)
Genre: Cults, Drabble Collection, Gen, Lucids, Shitty Teen Cult Busting, The Blackout Club - Freeform, The Maze - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 15:31:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20342443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/concertconfetti/pseuds/concertconfetti
Summary: Redacre is a shit town, but it's home. Billie "Bill" Thorson and their friends aren't about to let some weird-ass cult ruin things.





	Bolt-Cutter, Box Cutter, Brick

Bill finds the tunnel entrance on the first day of summer. Its behind a door with the Chorus Comms logo emblazoned on it. In the downstairs bathroom, for some reason. Bill supposes the cult thinks kids their age will just assume the cable company has a good reason to be routing through the bathroom. 

Not Bill though. Bill's been sleeping with noise cancelling headphones, locked in the cat condo that takes up their second-floor balcony for four weeks now. They've been setting an alarm for 5 in the morning so they can move to their bed before their parents wake up. When a "dream" does creep it, they meticulously write down every detail they can remember. Words, voices, feelings. It's been months since they last talked to their parents about the blackouts; mom and dad proved unreliable early on.

So when they find the cable company logo in the half-bath on the first floor, they pull off the flimsy cardboard acting as a door, grab their notebook, phone, and a taser they found in the garage, and slip down the ladder. 

"Christ," they hiss, stood in front of a heavy metal door just at the bottom of the ladder. Bill tries the wheel keeping the door shut, and its squeals echo back up into the house. They wince at the sound, hope their parents really are at work, and sneak through the door. 

The tunnel beyond is hand-worked smooth, the sort of work that leaves divots in the ground. Bill slips and slides down the gradual incline. They curse their decision to wear Van's instead of their more practical combat boots. The tunnel ends in a scaffold, and Bill crouches behind a light to properly tie their shoes. No sense dying for the sake of style.

As they collect themselves and venture into the vast, echoing room, the dread feeling of deja vu grips at their lungs. They're faced with less a room, and more a cavern, filled with generators and instrument wire. Piles of refuse are carefully shoved into corners, and carpet has been laid around it. 

"How the hell did this all get here?" Bill says out loud, despite themselves. "Did...did our parents build this?"

The man-made cavern echos with the discordant notes of plucked wire. The melody seems random; Bill can't parse a pattern or melody over the course of ten or so minutes. No one plucks the cords in this chamber, not now at least, but they way the thick wire is strung, it seems there are stations. 

"A system of communication, maybe, in addition to control?" Bill mutters, pulling their notebook out. They write out their observations and sketch the cavern. The more data they have, the better prepared Bill will be for a return trip. 

"Hello?" A voice says below them. Bill startles and throws their notebook back into their backpack. The voice continues - "I heard you. Don't worry, I'm here to help." 

Bill starts a slow creep back toward their house when they hear the clamor of feet on the ladder behind them. They scramble forward, slipping in the first steps of a sloppy sprint. The heavy door is slow to close; Bill catches a glimpse of the adult at the end of the tunnel. Their face is obscured, and Bill swears their eyes and mouth are floating around their face. They slammed the door the rest of the way and fly up the ladder, their momentum carrying carrying them straight to their room. 

Bill locks themselves in, piling furniture in front of the door. They grab their pocket knife from its place on the bedside table and sits on the bed, arms wrapped around their knees, with the knife pointed at the door.

"Fuck this," they breathe, shaking ever so slightly. "Fuck. This."


End file.
